Captain Quad (34 page)

(inside)

"Was I, did I, what?" Peter said, amused at what he perceived as his brother's leap of insight. "We're going to have to start speaking in complete sentences here, Sammy."

"You. . . saw me?" Sam said, indicating the swollen ruin of his face. "Before now?"

"Yep."

"Last night?"

"Yep."

"Jesus," Sam breathed. "That's weird. That's really weird." A cleft divided his brow. "Christ, man, what if I'd been. . . I don't know, boffing a babe or something?"

Peter whooped. "What, a virgin like thou?"

"Who says I'm a virgin?" Sam shot back, his face the color of a beet.

"You just did," Peter said, laughing again. "'Boffing a babe. . . '"

"Well, it's not impossible, you know."

Recognizing his brother's bruised ego, Peter backed off. "What about it, bro? Any prospects in your life?"

Unbidden, Kelly's face flashed in Sam's mind, as unexpected as his earlier thoughts of his brother invading his dreams, and he blushed again. He glanced at Peter and thought he saw something flicker across his face like the shadow of a predatory bird. Then Peter was smiling again, patiently awaiting a response.

"No," Sam said. "Nothing serious. Looks like it's going to be liver in a jam jar for a while yet."

"Liver in a jam jar," Peter repeated, incredulous. "Where did you hear about that?"

"Psychopathia Sexualis," Sam said, getting into the rap. "Required reading for the Human Growth and Development course, Biology Two. Cram in the liver, stuff in your dick. Great for no-stick frying afterward."

"You are one sick puppy!" Peter howled.

And for a while they were just brothers again.

Later, on his way down in the elevator, it occurred to Sam that he was hungry. He'd had nothing to eat since breakfast, and now he craved something sweet. After exiting at the main floor, he crossed the lobby to the gift shop, where he grabbed a Mr. Big from the candy rack. As he dug in his pocket for some change, he noticed Shawna Blane and another nurse from Peter's floor buzzing over the daily newspaper. Shawna held it up for her companion's inspection, and Sam caught a glimpse of the headline: physician dies in bizarre in-hospital suicide. Curious, he paid for his chocolate bar, then browsed through the curios and gifts. When the nurses left, he strode immediately to the newsstand.

Attired in suit coat and smock, looking officious and smug, Dr. Lowe stared out at him from the front page of the Sudbury Star. The headline, as lurid as they got in this peaceful municipality, screamed out at him in bold black caps.

"Jesus," Sam said, trying to ignore the jab of dread in his gut. "Oh, Jesus. . .”

He picked up a copy and scanned the article. Then he paid for the paper, rolled it into a tube, and limped back out to the elevators. He could feel his heart drumming out quick, nervous rhythms in his chest.

He was breathless when he reached his brother's room—but some instinct made him pause just short of the open door. Dinner was over, the evening rounds completed, and the ward was winding down for the night. At the moment the hallway was deserted.

Moving silently—and feeling a bit ridiculous—Sam crept to the edge of the doorjamb and peeked inside.

There on the bed in the dimming twilight lay his brother. The computer was on, and in its dull green shine Peter looked chillingly like Rhett Kiley had looked in the swampy green glow of the Caddy's dash lights. The key striker was plugged into his mouth like some weird wand, and his face was pinched with concentration. . . and something else, Sam thought. There was an open delight in Peter's face, and it brought a memory to Sam the way a throttle brought juice to an engine.

One afternoon in grade school Sam had left his homework assignment on his desk and had been halfway home before he realized it. He'd made his way back at a run, and had been grateful to find his classroom unlocked. He went to his desk, grabbed his books, and turned to leave. It was then that he heard the faint, strangled squeals coming from the science room across the hall. The door to the science room was ajar, and although the lights were off Sam noticed a shadow against one wall, rocking rhythmically to and fro. He'd crept to that door the way he was creeping now. . . and on the other side he'd found Ben Parrillo, a fat, dumpling-faced kid, hunched over an unlit workbench. Ben was hacking the head off a white mouse with a pair of scissors. Rodent blood had sprayed up his arm and speckled his double chin—and the look on Ben's face had been exactly like the one on Peter's face now: fixed, furious, transported, delighted. Eight years later, at the age of sixteen, Ben had stabbed his mother to death, then hanged himself from an attic crossbeam. He'd stabbed her sixty-eight times.

Sam flinched away, convinced that Peter had seen him—and suddenly terrified that he had.

What is wrong with you? That's your brother in there. That's Peter.

Sam waited until he caught his breath. Then he went inside.

Again Peter scowled. Again he switched off his computer. "What did you forget?" he said, the words spiked with annoyance, reminding Sam of their father.

"Nothing," Sam said, trying to shake his disquiet. He held out the rolled-up newspaper. "Have you seen today's paper?"

Peter shook his head.

And Sam thought: He's lying. Maybe not about the paper, but he knows what's in it. He folded the paper out, then held it open for Peter's inspection.

What's that on his face right now? Sam thought as his brother scanned the article. What is it now?

But the answer to that one was easy. It was satisfaction.

"Well, ain't that a shame," Peter said. "Get it out of my sight."

Alone in the apartment that night, Sam sat staring at the reel-to-reel. After a while he reached out and switched it on. The tape was the last of numerous copies Sam had made over the years, and at this stage the sound reproduction was so bad that even at full volume large parts of it were obscured by tape hiss. . . but that didn't bother Sam. He sat on the couch, which still bore the greasy imprint of his mother's head on the armrest, and let his mind take him back to that day, to the pride he'd felt, the unalloyed admiration. He remembered, too, the faint stab of jealousy he'd experienced when he saw Kelly dart down from the wing—just one more befuddling emotion in the hormonal soup of adolescence. . . but it had been there just the same, and now he remembered it. He remembered how his mind had tossed up a portrait of the two of them embracing back there in the dark—"trading spit," as Peter sometimes joked—and how something deep inside him had for an alarming instant been furious, green and blind and furious. The memory made him think of the thrill he'd felt when Kelly called out to him in the university parking lot, that fleeting first moment when his heart had soared and his mind had tried to convince him that Kelly had shared his feelings all these years. . .

Sam looked down and saw that his nails had dug happy face creases in his palms.

Truth was, he'd been thinking a lot about Kelly lately. . .

With a child's furtiveness, Sam reached under the couch and withdrew his grade nine yearbook. It fell open to the correct page automatically: the 1983 graduating class, glossy color photos of bright, ambitious faces. Kelly's was the last of them.

Kelly Wheeler.

Was that who Peter had been writing about? Was that why he seemed so determined that Sam never get a look at the screen?

He was still pondering these questions when the tape ended.

And began to flap.

Will was chopping vegetables when Kelly walked in. The heavy snowfall of the night before had dumped ten inches of the stuff on the driveway, and Kelly had been forced to leave her car at the top of the hill. The guy who did the plowing for her hadn't shown up yet, and as she shrugged off her coat she made a mental note to call him if he hadn't arrived before bedtime. Chainsaw had trailed her down the hill, yapping and gamboling like a pup. Now he stood gawking in through the sidelight.

Will greeted her from the chopping block. "Hey, good lookin'," he said brightly. "Can I interest you in a stir-fry? It's from Yan's latest cookbook."

"Which one is that?" Kelly said as she hung up her coat.

"A Hundred New Ways to Wok Your Dog."

Chainsaw barked.

"Careful," Kelly said, laughing. "I think he can hear you." She kicked off her boots, then strolled in to give Will a kiss, making a show of adjusting her ring. "Been home long?"

"Half hour," Will said, accepting her kiss but missing her cue. "You like frozen peas?"

"Love 'em," Kelly fibbed.

"Good. Listen. Why don't you slip into the tub and relax for a bit." He fluttered his eyebrows lecherously. "Then I'll bring in your dinner and join you."

"Dinner in the tub?"

"Why not?"

"Yeah," Kelly said, flashing the ring again. "Why not?" She glanced at the neatly diced vegetables, then began undoing her blouse. "Fast food?"

Will began chopping furiously.

Happy, Kelly thought as she turned away.

The tub was already filled, heaped with bubbles and breathing steam, just the way she liked it. The overhead light was on, but a candle stood ready by the sink.

Pleased, Kelly stripped off her things and sank into the waiting tub. The bubbles sighed along with her. A few minutes later Will brought in a goblet of white wine. Kelly accepted it with her left hand. . . but nothing.

Come on, Will. Open your eyes!

Before leaving, Will lit the candle and switched off the light. Kelly was dozing when he came back with the grub—stir-fried shrimp with almonds and assorted vegetables. Will was a great cook and had practically taken over the job since his unofficial move-in. Kelly didn't mind. Julia Childs she wasn't. He was slow and methodical out there, blending things together with an almost religious solemnity. It was the way he went about everything, Kelly thought—including spotting this ring—and she guessed he'd never die from a heart attack.

She watched him strip off his clothes, as always aroused by the lean hardness of his body. Once naked, he arranged the plates on the makeshift trays he'd rigged for the occasion, then slipped into the tub facing Kelly.

"To us," he said, toasting her with his goblet of wine.

"To us," Kelly seconded, using her left hand again, slopping wine onto her chin.

"You gotta watch that booze, babe," Will kidded. "It's wicked stuff." He scooped up a forkful of peas—

Then his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open and the peas plunked into the tub. His gaze went unfocused, striking Kelly in the vicinity of her chin, and he seemed suddenly on the verge of choking.

"Will?" Kelly said with alarm.

"You—" Will stammered, "you. . . mean it?"

And then she understood. She placed her left hand in his. "I sure do."

Will tried to hug her across the supper trays, then settled back in the tub. "God, Kelly." There were tears in his eyes. "I love you so much."

"And I love you, Will."

THIRTY-TWO

Drop your cocks and grab your slush boots!" Rhett growled good-naturedly. "Just look at you fuckin' reprobates!"

He'd let himself into Jerry's place through the unlocked front door, and now he stood in the living room archway, one fist wrapped around a frosty can of Coors. Startled from his boozy sleep, Jerry lurched off the chesterfield and swung blindly at the air. Mike Gore, slumped in the chair across from him, just went on snoring. The night before, the two old friends had settled in for some serious drinking and had passed out watching Clint Eastwood kick ass in some nameless spaghetti western. Rhett, who was supposed to have joined them, had called around ten to beg off—something about a redhead with larbos the size of honeydews.

"You just about scared the shit outta me, Rhett," Jerry said, grinning stupidly. The animal rage that had flared in his eyes when he sprang off the chesterfield had been replaced by a look of mild bewilderment, Jerry's usual expression. He scratched his spiked thatch of hair, then kicked one of Gore's stockinged feet.

"Wha. . . ?" the big man grunted, unblinkering his puffy eyes.

"Wha?" Rhett parroted, and then roared with laughter.

Gore shrugged up in the chair that had served as his bed and winced at the kink in his back. Then he squinted at his watch and winced again. His wife was going to murder him. He'd promised to call her last night if he decided to sleep over. Oh, boy.

"Let's get it the fuck in gear, gents," Rhett said. "It's four ay-em and the fishies are waitin'."

As if on cue, Jerry and Mike gazed in tandem through the living room window. It was pitch out there, and a gusting wind rattled the panes. Angry flecks of sleet spattered the glass like flung sand. At a glance, Mike estimated that the mercury had plunged into the double negatives.

"I know what you're thinking," Rhett said, not quite so good-naturedly this time, "but put it out of your minds. I didn't crawl out of the rack at three in the morning—and I was not alone, gentlemen—to listen to you two butt bandits whine. We haven't reneged on this fishin' trip in ten years, and we're not about to start now." He grinned menacingly. "So let's get on with it? Say?"

Ignoring the muttered profanities, Rhett lobbed his empty into the general rubble and stamped back outside. He was relieved to find that Jerry had readied the snowmobiles. They sat angled on their trailer in the sideyard, snugged cozily away beneath form-fitting tarps. He found the Coleman stove beneath the cluttered workbench in the garage. The ice auger he found resting on the overhead crossbeams. The sucker was heavy, and he nicked a finger on the spiraling blade trying to muscle it out to the truck. Cursing, he corked the finger into his mouth and waited until the sting had subsided. Then he went back to wrangling the auger. A few minutes later, comically bulked up in a snowmobile suit two sizes too big for him, Jerry stumbled out to help him.

"Where's Gore?" Rhett said with annoyance.

"Callin' his wife," Jerry said, and both men grinned impishly.

* * *

They reached the halfway mark—the dead end of a dirt road about fifteen miles off Highway 17—at 5:32 a.m. From here on in, the going was strictly by snowmobile. Mike rode with Jerry, whose machine was more powerful, and Rhett hauled the lightweight sled containing their gear. As always, Jerry took the lead. Their destination, a deep-woods lake not shown on any map, had been his father's best kept secret, and Jerry had fished it all his life.